Confessions
by HarryPotterGrl100
Summary: ONESHOT. Because even Ruth had desires. And her most damning one was for her daughter's fiance... Don't ship these two at all; just in mood for something original. :)


For the thousandth time it seemed, on that maiden voyage, Ruth DeWitt Bukater looked in the mirror and cried at what she saw reflected back at her.

For she was forever tormented by the one thing, the one man, she could not have.

For Ruth was forever in love with her daughter's fiance.

She supposed it had started when she had first met him. Oh how handsome he was, how cultured, how smart, how sweet, how kind, how perfect! The perfect epitome of perfection, both physically and in his heart, the perfect first-class man, the perfect man above all.

And, though she would never, ever admit it, she was jealous, quite literally envious, of her daughter. She loved Rose, adored her with all her heart and soul, but could not deny that she was envious. And God would forgive her for being so short with her, sometimes so annoyed at all Rose's ungratefulness and attitudes, though Ruth didn't become angry often, believe it or not.

Oh how wonderful it would be, to be young and beautiful again! For being seventeen, young, Rose's age, brought with it all the excitement of courting, of prepping for marriage, of lovely ballet lessons and finishing school courses, of being courted by handsome young men, of being taught the proper way to wear corsets, dresses, and the like! For being young again, being a young unmarried first-class woman brought with it all the excitement of traveling, and seeing operas and ballets at the theater, and wearing the most darling hats and dresses and gloves and jewels! She had so loved being young!

She was so, so envious of all the young girls at all the galas and parties! They were so lucky, so in their prime. Soon they would be her age, and forced to sit on the sidelines and smile as if nothing bothered them.

And, the biggest cause of her envy, though it was painful to admit, was because of him. Cal.

Oh, she knew full well how all the beautiful young girls stared, smiled, blushed longingly at him. It was what she did herself, though thank goodness he, or anyone else for that matter, didn't know it!

Watching dancing, gossiping with her many friends, she literally felt twists in her heart whenever she saw all the beautiful young girls smiling at him, saw him dance with Rose, saw him kiss her hand, only to have her look revolted at the very sight of him.

Didn't Rose realize how lucky she was? Didn't Rose realize how all the other girls would literally give their right hands to be her?

Ruth would have too, and that was the sad, real, painful truth.

It was the greatest excitement whenever he would come, smiling, kiss her hand, and offer her a dance or two, unasked, of course, but that was only another measure of how sweet he was. For first-class women her age did not dance unless either asked or with family. And oh how she loved to dance! It was something she had always loved ever since she was a young bright-eyed, corseted fifteen-year-old at finishing school.

Staring into his eyes, trying to control her blush, the rapid beating of her heart, she would force herself to smile and make pleasant conversation, force herself not to get lost in his amber eyes, his handsome, incredibly gorgeous face, his dizzying small smiles, not to faint at the warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne. And then she would be reminded, horribly, of the dreams, the dreams that made her blush, that made her wake up half-horrified, at the dreams that made her feel like a mere prostitute...the dreams that awakened long-forgotten desires in her, desires her husband had never fulfilled...

But she saw the way he looked at Rose, always, always looked at her, face full of unabashed love, when he thought nobody was looking. And it cut her to the quick, broke her heart into little tiny shards, for she knew that he would never, ever look at her, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, that way. He would only ever see her as a mother, a friend. That was all.

She would go home at night, lock herself in her bedroom and stare into the mirror and despair. Oh, to be young and beautiful again! If only for a moment! She longed to close her eyes and open them and see Rose reflected back at her, to see a pale face smooth and soft and free of wrinkles, to see red curly hair shiny and smooth instead of becoming rough and coarser from age. She longed to see blue eyes with no wrinkles around them, longed to see a body full of curves and young skin instead of a tall, almost skeletal, form underneath her corset.

What wouldn't she give to be Rose, switch places with her, magically become her daughter and live out the rest of her daughter's existence. How happy she would be! She would love to become Mrs. Caledon Hockley, become his wife, be made sweet, sweet love to by him, bear his children, travel with him, and spend the rest of her days in bliss, unadulterated bliss.

Every morning, rain or shine, she would wake up in his arms and know true happiness at his kiss, that look of pure love in his eyes, that beautiful sparkle, reflected back at her.

And it broke her heart all the more to know they could never, ever be. It was improper. It was not to be.

If she could only be Rose for one day, what wouldn't she do, what wouldn't she make happen!

She had never felt this way about any other man before. She had never loved her husband, truth be told. He had never been as handsome, charming, or witty or romantic as many of her beaux when she was young. It was an arranged marriage of course, as they all were, but she had still tried. Still tried. But no. Many days he had treated her as if invisible, always cheating on her with various maids, and to add further insult, other women from their circle. But at every party she, Ruth, was always on his arm, smiling and waving a white-gloved hand as if nothing was wrong.

The only good thing he had given her was Rose. So so curious, how he had treated his wife as if invisible, yet had showered their daughter with affection.

It had almost been a relief when he died. She was glad to be rid of him. The only problem was the debt.

But Ruth truly loved Rose, for all her difficulties and ungratefulness. She truly, truly did. It did not make her a horrible person, a horrible mother, for showering Rose with the best dresses, the best jewels, the best finishing school. She only wanted the best for Rose, and she knew these things would bring Rose success.

And it did not make her a horrible mother for making Rose marry him, for trying to save them from debt. Oh, no. Ruth knew with all her heart that Cal truly loved her daughter, was a gentleman, was the proper match for her daughter in both wealth and breeding...and, would even grant Rose's many ridiculous fantasies and wishes! She knew it!

She supposed it was also another way to keep him close to her. Even though his mother-in-law, mother of his wife, was all she would ever, ever be.

Again she wished, vividly, that she, somehow, someway, could be the future Mrs. Cal Hockley, instead of only the mother of her.

She remembered how tortured he had been that evening, how upset. He had knocked on her cabin door, and, in the moonlight, had been swaying on his feet, his gorgeous dark hair gel-free and tousled, eyes bloodshot, clean-shaven face dark with shadow.

It was clear he had been drinking. She could smell the brandy off him mixed with his cologne, and she saw first-hand how upset he was.

He had sobbed, almost delirious, about how Lovejoy had spotted her with the steerage boy from dinner, and how they had, in his words, seemed too familiar with each other.

She had invited him in, heart bleeding for him, and held him in her arms as they sat on her bed, head clasped to her breast, as he had sobbed about how he knew Rose didn't love him, how he tried so hard, how he loved her so much it hurt, and, even dreadfully so, how maybe he should just shoot himself. Maybe then she would care.

With every sob from him piercing her, every word about Rose a blow to her heart, she, blinking through her slight tears, whispered to him, about how Rose did love him, he was simply hallucinating from drinking, Rose was going through a mere rebellion, she would have a talk with her. But every sob from him elicited more anger at Rose. How selfish, how wicked Rose was! She was so foolish, so uncaring! She cared not if she hurt him! And again she felt that desire to somehow be Rose, again and again and again...

His white dress-shirt was unbuttoned slightly, revealing his slight amount of dark chest hair. Oh how her fingers longed to touch it, to caress it. Then she was horrified. She was feeling things no proper lady should feel, thinking things no proper lady should feel. She was...why, she was behaving no better than a common whore. She blinked, hating how embarrassingly obvious she was no doubt being.

His head on her breast was torture, utter torture. He was so, so achingly close. And again, beneath her pity and sympathy for him, the need to see him smile, be happy, she could still feel her heart beating fast for him.

When at last he stopped and smiled a bit at her, she felt complete. Happy. Her hands still rubbing his back soothingly as he eased into a sitting position, she faltered, could not speak. His face was oh-so-close to hers, so tantalizingly close.

He could quite literally kiss her right now. And she, stupidly, half hoped he would.

But he only had smiled, given her a small wink, and said thank you, and how her words had been a great comfort, and that he apologized for the late hour.

She had only smiled, blinking back slight tears, and seen him out, then slid down the closed wooden door and sobbed, for once uncaring that her silk dressing-gown would be stained.

She knew they could never, ever be, and it was time to cast him out of her heart, out of her life. But how could she? It was too hard.

And so, as Ruth DeWitt Bukater stared into the mirror of the morning of April 14, she composed herself as best she could, ready to greet the day, her usual excuse to Trudy for her crying jags as of late migraines.

She dressed herself, put on her best day-dress, gloves and bonnet, and stared. The wedding was four days away. It was time to bury her desires, bury them, and never let them show ever again.

As she cast one last glance over her appearance, tears threatening to fall again, she had no way of knowing that by this time tomorrow, both her daughter and the man she loved above all others would be mere victims of the sea, lost forever to her, and that the pain she was feeling as of now would be minimal in comparison to what would follow.


End file.
